


Silver Waves and Bloodstains

by redribbonmagpie



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Blood and Gore, Ive always enjoyed the “Simon is slightly psychic” aspect of the book so, Tagged for violence due to Simon’s death, actually in character for once wow, here you go ya nerds, here’s a Simon centric thing that I actually wrote for class 2 years ago, this is old af so. There’s that but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26887036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redribbonmagpie/pseuds/redribbonmagpie
Summary: Simon dreams of death and the sea, and awakens to find he does not feel as safe as he first thought.
Kudos: 10





	Silver Waves and Bloodstains

Simon dreamt of the sea.

Ribbons of blood, leaking from his chest, danced through the water like seaweed, mixing with the pale foam that crested the beach. His breathing was labored, nearly silent, a slight rasp in the night. Shadowy figures, retreating over the rock, armed with spears and dripping with gore, swarmed the edge of his vision. Blood and guts leaked out of his chest, stained scarlet, shinning, wet. Even then, he refused to close his eyes, glassy irises reflecting the stars over head, and as his vision began to dim the sea slowly dragged his body away. He faintly processed he was dying, and a sense of urgent panic flooded his numb limbs, but it soon faded into darkness. It was too late, after all, too late for him. The waves, incessant, soft, gentle, lulled him to sleep. 

He woke up with a jolt of terror, eyes wide with fear. 

The familiar shadows of his hideout took shape around him, and the normality comforted him. Memories slid back into his mind like a sea creature crawling into its shell, recalling the fire on the mountain, the wild glee of the other boys, the pristine beach and steamy jungle. He remembered creeping away from the mass of filthy bodies and matted hair and slipping into the night, the fear of a beast making the shadows of the jungle writhe around him. He remembered swatting off invisible flies, dark and iridescent, as they swarmed his body, gorging on his hysteria, before he slipped off into a restless sleep.

He wiped his clammy hands under his nose, rubbing away the dried remains of a nosebleed, before wiping them on the tattered remains of his shorts and wriggling out of the mat of creepers. The night was alive around him, dawn barely fingering the sky: the hum of insects and the rustling of treetops in the wind filled the landscape, banishing the lingering scent of sweat and fear. After a minute, Simon’s breathing slowed, though his pulse still shuddered in an irregular rhythm. He lurched to his feet, clumsily grabbing onto a low hanging creeper to keep his balance, and began to stagger through the trees, following a faintly tread path with the vague intention of returning to the beach and the distant yet comforting presence of the other boys in his mind. 

As he shoved his way through the brush, he finally emerged on the moon bathed waves of white sand and the shoddily constructed shelters. Relief flooded his chest, loosening muscles he hadn't known he’d been tensing. But as soon as he’d relaxed, a deep-set fear of the unknown, creeping out of the shadows, prompted his body, sending him fleeing down the beach. But the closer he got to the silvery waves, a different panic rose within him, sending him running clumsily to the shelters. Before he could reach them, however, a dark body hidden by a rock caught his foot, sending him tumbling to the ground.

Simon let out a cry, then a soft whimper, then was silent, even as he could feel his eyes watering from the abrasions on his feet. The boy he’d tripped over rose with a lurch, rubbing sand out of his eyes. Tilting his head, Simon peered at the figure. Roger, eyes dark and dull, like two mirroring voids, stared back at him. 

Faint talking of the other boys, woken by the noise, filled the space beyond Simon’s vision. 

“Who’s that? A littlun?”

“Another sleepwalker, likely.”

“D’he fall in one of them pools?”

Figures clambered out of sand pockets, scrambling to the commotion with a sleepy curiosity. The lanky figure of Ralph, one armed crossed over his chest, the other rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, appeared as a dark silhouette in the sky. The rotund figure of Piggy was close behind, glasses flashing in the moonlight. 

“Young Simon, what’s it now?”

Simon blinked, trembling a little in the face of authority. Ralph, and the creamy shell that usually resided in his hands, were closest thing to an adult on the island. 

“The dark,” he choked out, tongue feeling numb and swollen in his mouth. Ralph sighed, and Piggy’s flushed face appeared next to him.

“Oh,” he said, a hint of disappointment edging his voice as he looked down at Simon. “It’s just you.”

For a second, Piggy’s face was replaced with a mirage of a sallow, dark haired boy, face twisted in disgust. Then the illusion shimmered and faded, leaving the familiar visage in its rightful place. 

Simon shivered, and thought faintly that he should eat soon.

Ralph's judging gaze still rested on the top of Simon’s head, and he looked away, hiding behind a curtain of his coarse black hair. This cued a sigh. 

“There ain't nothing out in the dark. Just a whole buncha sticks and trees.”

There was a collective murmur of agreement from the assembled boys, even those who Simon had seen wake up from night terrors. Even Piggy’s round face nodded along, and a dark shake of movement showed Roger agreeing as well. 

Simon felt surrounded, trapped, like a pig on a hunt.

“Ya! There ain't no beast!”

“Even if there was, we’d stick it! We’d stick it clean through!”

Maurice's boisterous shouts, fueling by internal fear, set a rumble of agreement through the group.

A thin figure, flame red hair faintly visible in the night, appeared at the edge of the crowd. The boys automatically parted to let him through, which made Ralph's mouth twitch in a disapproving frown. 

“We’d stick it real good,” Jack said, eyes gleaming. He walked like a king before his royal subjects, joining Ralph and Piggy in standing above Simon, though he didn’t deign to greet either of the others, which worsened Ralph's mood. His clear blue eyes were lit with a wild fire, the fire of the hunt and the kill, of greed and chaos. 

“Dun worry. Anythin’ come out of them woods in the wee hours, we stick it,” he said intensely. “We’ll stick it till its blood drains out to the sea.”

Simon felt his stomach rise in his throat, even as the other boys cheered and hollered. Roger, still next to him, let out a low rumbling chuckle. 

The taste of brine and blood welled in Simon’s mouth, a ghost of a nearly forgotten dream. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is legit from when I read lotf for English class. I enjoyed the book, particularly Simon, and wrote this as a creative piece for class. It laid forgotten in the depths of my google drive for two whole years before I unearthed it. A few minor edits polished up the grammatical errors and I ended up with something I was fairly proud of. So, I decided to post it online, so others following in the “got obsessed with a classic book” footsteps may have something to soothe their needs.  
> Thanks for reading.


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